Hubby asked me when we moved to Arizona and on base, to not write about my neighborhood or our neighbors. Why?

"You're not supposed to shit where you eat," he said.

Well...

1. I'm not eating out there with them... or anything any people who live around me would ever cook.
2. When you are surrounded by shit, it's inevitable that shit happens.

After what happened this week, I don't care anymore. All my fucks have been given, and it's clear why I remain a hermit.

Monday evening, the neighbors decided to have a party. It started getting louder as the evening progressed and more alcohol was consumed, and as these were the neighbors on the other side of our duplex, we could hear everything- especially The Girl, whose window is right above their backyard.

So, considering I've reached out to the chick next door on several occasions (more on that later) and was never really received warmly, I made the calculated decision of how I wanted to handle the situation.

I chose to post on a local mom's online group, at around 8pm, and ask these ladies if anyone happened to have a copy of the neighborhood rules, and what time the noise ordinance was in effect.

I did this for 2 reasons that were all well thought out prior to posting:

1. So I would know what my rights were.
2. So some nosy woman on the list would inevitably tell my next door neighbor, who would realize they were being quite loud for a Monday night and be an adult about it, quieting down, and everything would have been done for me by some busybody.

I seriously overestimated the people in my neighborhood I was dealing with. Adult seemed to not be a word

I want to say that. Deep down inside, that's the mom I feel I should be.

But, alas, I'm not.

Reality is, I'm the mom who, with her kids, caught up on Season 2 AND Season 3 of "Once Upon a Time" in a little over a week. I'm the mom who took the kids to the budget theater on $1.50 Tuesday to watch "The Nut Job" movie just because we could all go to a movie for under $5. I'm the mom who took her kids shopping one day and out to eat for lunch.

And that's about it.

We didn't spend the week baking cookies, making crafts or taking daily field trips to interesting places around town. We didn't even take the week to go on a family vacation to some amazing resort or fun amusement park.

We spent the week lazy.

Part of me is ashamed to admit what little we did over Spring Break.

Part of me is plagued with Mom Guilt that my kids and I didn't even take a day trip somewhere fun.

And part of me knows it was the best thing possible for my kids right now. We have been sticking to a pretty

I was laying in bed, catching up on my social media accounts, when I saw a question posted to an online forum about where to have placenta encapsulation done.

My brain went here:

Encapsulation... encapsulate... capsule... like a time capsule? Why would someone want to preserve their placenta for a time capsule?

That's a hell of an 18th birthday present. "Happy Birthday, Ginger, here's the placenta that nourished you while you were inside of me. Hang it on the wall of your new college dorm room as a reminder that you are always a part of me."
No. Not a creepy mom move whatsoever.

I began typing, "What in the hell is placenta encapsulation?" when I realized I could save myself some possible public embarrassment (which is perfectly acceptable on my blog, thank you) by googling it first.

My eyes popped out of my head and my jaw dropped to the floor.

Placenta Encapsulation is the process of taking the placenta, post partum of course, and having it made into pill form so the mother can take it internally.

Before I go any further, yes, a typical Tatted Mom disclaimer is needed:

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

"My neighbors brought by some vegetable soup in jars, so I'm sending the jars back to them full of moonshine."

Hot damn, I miss the south.

Born in Virginia (yes, we are below the Mason-Dixon line, thank you), first stationed in North Carolina, last stationed in South Carolina, and I miss the south.

People wave at you for no reason in the south.

Everyone is called Hun or Darlin' or Sweetheart, even if you've never met them before.

Bless Your Heart means something totally different there, and it's not a good thing.

Two words: Sweet Tea.

Neighbors bring you cookies or pies or a gift basket when you move in, partly because it's southern hospitality, partly because they are nosy and want to know where you came from.

Friends don't let you stay depressed, or in a funk, or even give you time to yourself. They take you out drinking to get your mind off of things, and knock on your window at the ass crack of dawn if you refuse to answer your door (true story right there).

Y'all is a completely acceptable word (a combination of you & all, for all y'all non-southerners).

Two more words: Pig Pickin'.

Playing in the mud with a big ass truck is a hell of a fun way to pass the time.

The right to bear arms is heavily exercised.

If you mess with one friend, you end up messing with them all. There's always a crazy friend, too, and

Or, the Universe just thought I needed to seriously purge 2013 in order to get ready for 2014. Not sure which is was, to be honest.

But when you make these goals, and decide that you are going to implement them on January 1st, and have no energy to eat or even get out of bed until January 5th, a huge wrench gets thrown into your beginning of the year mojo.

So, I put the brakes on all of these move-straight-forward plans and... well...

here it is March and the brakes are still on.

I get up each morning and do yoga or pilates. Then I meditate, clean, spend time with Hubby and work on store stuff, creating whatever my heart can come up with and filling orders. By that time my kids are home

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Big green button, angering me for the last few days when I pulled up the Facebook app on my phone, so today, I decided to gave in. Fine, Facebook, I'll update my app.

Click the button, off to Google Play store, click Install, and this popped up:

Normally, I don't read these things. I just click "Accept" and go on about my day. But today was different. Maybe it was because I just watched the movie "Disconnect" and am super paranoid about everything that has to do with the internet (superb movie, by the way, but I digress). Or, maybe it was because the nice bright green 'NEW' caught my attention. For whatever reason, I decided to actually see what this new Facebook update wanted from me and from my phone.

Huge WTF moment.

Item #1- Facebook wants to read my text messages. Why does Facebook need to read my text messages? What possible reason could these asshats come up with that would logically explain WHY facebook needs to know about my best friend's and my conversation about how much our cramps suck, or how we send each other someecards that we just don't feel are appropriate for the entire world to see plastered all over our Facebook walls? If someone from Facebook comes across this post and could so